1: And So It Begins

Date: Tuesday. Early-ish in the summer holidays.

You just know things are bad when Ginny Weasley starts keeping a diary again. Though, having bought this one myself from the Muggle corner shop in Ottery St Catchpole, I think I have pretty much minimalised the risk of a Dark Lord popping out of it and trying to suck the life out of me again. Let’s face it; I would have to be pretty unlucky to get hit by that one twice. Or pretty stupid. Either way.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Things being bad.

Of course, last summer was no picnic, what with Phlegm prancing around all over the place, sticking her nose in everywhere and laughing that stupid, throaty laugh which has all the members of the male sex going all googly-eyed. But then I had Ron, Hermione and Potter to keep me company in my sane little world. Well – Ron was the worst of all in the googly-eyed department, but he was fun to laugh at. Only now they’re all at Potter’s aunt and uncle’s house, doing what the gods only know, and leaving me to fend for myself.

Did I mention that it’s not just Fleur now? Oh no – now we have a whole bloody clan of part-Veela swishing around all over the place, re-writing all Mum’s careful wedding plans and clicking their tongues despairingly every time they catch sight of me. The wedding’s only a couple of weeks away – by which time, I’m told, there’ll be even more blondes all over the place – and so everyone’s worrying about what I’m going to wear.

Fleur picked out these amazing dress robes – all pale gold and shimmery, the neckline plunging practically to the waist and the hem stopping not far below it – but Mum was having none of it. She said, under no circumstances, would she (Fleur) be given licence to corrupt my young mind (please! I’m sixteen!) and turn me into some sort of sex-crazed scarlet woman. Of course, I practically exploded with laughter at that. I mean, it was just a pair of dress robes, for Merlin’s sake.

Still, she wouldn’t budge, and popped up soon after with the catalogue open at a page in the “older witches” section. She pointed to this ghastly, floor-length thing with more frills than Ron’s old dress robes and a collar which crept right up the model’s neck. Fleur looked at her as though she had gone mad, and just sort of shook her head sadly, like, “It’s not her fault she’s so old.”

Her mother doesn’t look old at all; she could easily be in her twenties. She’s a lot worse than Fleur. I mean, I’ve got to admit, the whole, “I don’t care what he looks like, I love him anyway,” thing was really quite cool, but I really can’t see her mother being even remotely impressed by it. Her husband is tall, dark and drop-dead-gorgeous, but completely SILENT. I swear, I have not heard him say a single word since he got here; he just sits in the living room, reading a bloody newspaper all day long, while everyone runs around him like chickens who have somehow misplaced their heads, trying to get everything ready in time for the wedding. The fact that his eldest daughter is getting married in a couple of weeks doesn’t seem to faze him at all.

Ugh, and I’ve not even started on about Gabrielle, Fleur’s eleven-year-old sister. She’s sharing my room, and oh my gods, for such a small kid she makes one hell of a racket when she’s sleeping. This coming from the girl who can sleep through Ron’s snoring, no problem. I mean it, that blonde little French girl could give Godric Gryffindor himself a run for his money. (This is only a theory, of course, but Dean’s convinced that the huge rift between Gryffindor and Slytherin had nothing at all to do with bloodlines, and everything to do with Gryffindor’s excessive snoring. I thought I had squashed that theory when I pointed out that Gryffindor probably slept in the Tower and Slytherin in the Dungeon – but like Dean said, even the four greatest wizards of the time probably got spooked sleeping by themselves in four different corners of a huge castle, and I guess I agree. But still, if it was that bad, you’d think Slytherin would have just buggered off somewhere else to sleep, instead of building a secret chamber, popping a Basilisk in it, and then disappearing off to let the rest of them take care of it… even though they didn’t. So yeah, it’s probably not true, but it was fun to talk about, anyway. That’s the thing about Dean. He’s not all doom and gloom – like SOME people I could mention. Much better boyfriend, really. Maybe I’ll owl him…) What was my point again? Oh yeah – Gabrielle and her snoring.

On top of all that (oh yes – there’s more), everyone – Dad, Bill, Charlie, Fred, George and Ron – they’ve all gone, leaving just Mum and me to fight the evil, lip-gloss pouting, hair swishing force that is trying to take over. Only Mum’s not fighting anymore. She’s working with them, leaving just me.

You understand the need for the diary now, I presume?

I’ve got to go – Mum says dinner’s ready. I must venture once more into the lair of the blonde tiger. Wish me luck.

Date: Same day, only later.

Merlin’s. Bloody. Beard. Aunt Murielle. Coming. Tomorrow. With cousins Laura and Vicky. In too much shock to write. More later.

Date: Same day. About midnight.

Well, sleeping beauty has just drifted off. Lucky little bugger. I’ll never get to sleep now. But at least I’ll be able to update.

I went down to dinner, and all was going well. The evil Delacours were in a reasonably neutral mood. So was I, until my mother dropped the bombshell.

“Oh – Ginny, dear. I meant to mention it earlier, but it slipped my mind. Auntie Murielle’s coming tomorrow, with Laura and Vicky. The girls’ll be sharing your room.”

I just sat there and looked at her. She gave me one of her no-nonsence looks before I even managed to open my mouth, and I knew then that arguement would be futile. But still.

Auntie Murielle, with her sloppy, ruby-red lipstick kisses and her bleached hair and sickly perfume? And her twin daughters, Laura and Vicky, with the same bleached hair? It’s like they’re all so ashamed to admit that they’re Weasleys – dying their hair, caking on the make-up to hide the freckles. The girls can pretend at school, so long as no-one looks too closely at the register; they just trail around with Romilda Vane and her motley crew, chasing after the latest pin-up, and ignore me entirely. But not when it comes to family occasions, like the wedding. They have to admit they’re related to us then. But you can be damned sure they’ll go out of their way to prove that, yes, we’re related, but they’re a hell of a lot better than us.

I can’t believe Mum’s doing this to me. How can she let them stay here? Like my life’s not bad enough as it is.

I’m going to try and get to sleep. The twins are as bad as Gabrielle when it comes to snoring. With three of them in my room, I don’t reckon I’m going to get a decent night’s sleep till I’m back at Hogwarts.

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